Page 36 of His Savage Ruin
I step inside reverently, fingertips brushing cracked leather spines. Titles in Italian, French, Latin, English. Even Russian and Arabic. My heart twists with something dangerously close to joy.
“You’ve read all these?” I ask.
“Many,” Matteo replies. His voice is softer here, echoing in the hush. “The rest are… waiting.”
I smile faintly, pulling a worn copy ofGrimm’s Fairy Talesfrom the shelf. “Fairy tales.”
He arches a brow. “Surprised?”
“Yes.” I thumb through the delicate pages, illustrations faded from years of touch. “I love fairytales. Other girls had dolls. I had stories—wolves and witches and clever girls who saved themselves. My mother used to read to me before bed. Later, when she died and no one cared if I slept or not, I’d hide under the covers with a flashlight, whispering the words to myself. Stories were safer than people.”
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes like an almost imperceptible shift.
“My father gave me no fairy tales,” he says at last. His tone is flat, but the edges cut deep. “Only rules.”
“And punishments, I can imagine,” I murmur.
His gaze sharpens. “Lessons. That’s what he called them.”
I study him in the low light, my eyes drawn again to the scar that slices along his jaw. The raised line catches the shadows, stark against skin otherwise too perfect. It suits him, this reminder of violence survived, and I wonder what “lesson” carved it there.
“Lessons leave marks,” I say quietly. “On the body, or the soul. Sometimes both.”
For the first time, he doesn’t shut me out. He doesn’t answer, either, but the silence feels less like a wall and more like… permission.
I let it hang, then glance back at the book in my hands. “What was your favorite?”
“Bluebeard.”
Of course. A tale of secrets and forbidden doors, of wives who vanished because they dared to ask questions.
“Not very romantic.”
“Romance is for children. Adults deal in truth.”
“And what truth does Bluebeard teach?”
“That some doors should never be opened. Some secrets are worth killing to protect.”
We’re closer now, though neither of us moved. The air between us feels charged, thick with unspoken things. His eyes hold mine, steady and searching, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle only I can provide.
“What secrets are you protecting, Alessia?” His voice is low, roughened by something I can’t name.
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I could ask you the same question."
"You could."
"But you won’t give me an answer, will you?"
Something that might be admiration flickers in his expression before it's replaced by something darker.
Then he says, "Tell me about Lorenzo."
The air shatters. My lungs squeeze tight. I snap the book closed, clutching it to my chest. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't deserve my words."
